Conclusions
by Forever Fairy
Summary: Look at the families of the victims. If they feel even just one moment of closure, then we've done our job.


My first Criminal Intent fic. I hope you like it. Please read and review.  
  
Conclusions   
  
I hate it when they cry. It makes me so depressed. It's easier to look at the dead bodies of the victims because they can't talk. They can't say, "They tortured me. They held me hostage for three weeks and tortured me before granting me a slow and painful death." Their bodies have to tell the stories and we have to interpret them. And they don't cry.  
  
I understand why they do. Cry, that is. If I lost someone close to me, I'd probably cry, too. That's why I don't get attached. I've lost way too much in my life. I know what it's like to be beaten to the ground until you're dead only to be brought back to life and beaten again. Maybe that's why I became a cop. To prevent that sort of thing from happening to someone else.  
  
The girl's mother is sobbing hysterically. Her daughter and son rush to hug her tightly, their tear-stained cheeks meeting, blending fluids into one large river of agony. Their eyes are bleeding out every emotion that is running through their veins. That's why I don't look.  
  
I return to the crime scene. I study the body so closely that I can almost smell her faded shampoo. The stiff feel of blood inert on her face is near me. I can almost hear her ringing laugh and see her bright smile. But it doesn't bother me. Because she can't tell me what she's been through.   
  
Neither can the families.  
  
It's my job to tell them what most likely happened to their beautiful daughter. The luminous little girl that they raised to love, only to have her killed by hate. It's my job to bestow upon them the hard truth that their daughter, their sister, their niece, their friend isn't coming home.   
  
I stand to talk to the family. I'm not ready to face them. I feel guilty, as if my own hands are stained with her blood, as if her pleas for life had fallen upon my own deaf ears. The man who killed her doesn't have to stand here now and be the bad guy who utters the words that tear the family apart.   
  
"I'm so sorry for your loss," I said softly. "She was a beautiful little girl." But like that matters. It doesn't matter how sorry I am, or how sure I am that she was a wonderful person, or that I can only imagine the pain their going through. It won't bring that girl back.  
  
Sometimes I wonder why exactly I do this everyday. Why do I get up every morning just to find that another man or woman has been murdered in cold blood? Why do I put myself through the hell of having to tell the families what has happened to their loved one?   
  
I blame myself for all the things that happen to these people. I feel like I should prevent every murder, every kidnapping, and every torture that happens in this city. It's my job. Isn't it?  
  
I look over my shoulder at Eames. She's standing over the body of the girl. Her face reflects the same guilt as mine. I approach her. Side by side, we stand together and look at the girl.  
  
"She was five years old, Bobby," Alex murmurs softly. I nod, unable to speak. Wordlessly, I reach out and take her hand in mine. She doesn't pull away.  
  
"There's always someone else, Bobby. Everyday, there's someone new. A new body to be studied. A new family to be informed. I still have no idea how we get through it."  
  
I can still barely speak. A tiny, sad smile appears on my face. We think too much alike, I tell myself. My grip on her hand tightens. She returns the squeeze. "How DO we get through it?" She asks softly.  
  
I open my mouth. My voice is hushed. "Look at the families of the victims. If they feel even just one moment of closure, then we've done our job."  
  
We turn our eyes to the family. Alex's eyes look up at me. "Then I don't think we've done our jobs yet."  
  
My hand squeezes hers even tighter. The truth is so painful. But she's right. We have a job to do. We'll have to do it tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that. I turn to her. Her eyes are understanding. I nod.  
  
"So let's go do it." 


End file.
